


blooming up from the ground

by danishsweethearts



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Gentleness, Getting Together, M/M, Post-Canon, Relationship Discussions, being able to use that tag is thrilling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:48:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25423417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danishsweethearts/pseuds/danishsweethearts
Summary: Twenty-something years after first meeting each other, Oikawa and Iwaizumi decide to get it together.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 5
Kudos: 45





	blooming up from the ground

**Author's Note:**

> i believe in oikawa tooru supremacy! happy belated birthday my forever boy
> 
> oikawa slay the world oikawa rule the court oikawa hit it til it breaks oikawa talent is something you make bloom oikawa never forget this worthless pride of mine oikawa grand king oikawa partner i can be proud of oikawa olympic gold medalist oikawa slay slay slay

When the last point of the game hits, it’s barely a hit at all. 

Tooru sets, his legs burning, his arms burning, his everything burning. The ball hangs in the air for a few seconds, and then his teammate runs up and spikes it down viciously. It’s a play they’ve practiced so many times that they could probably pull it off in their sleep.

Somebody on the opposite team dives.

He misses.

The ball glances off of the side of his arm and bounces onto the court. 

For a moment, nothing happens. Nothing happens at all.

Then, the world bursts into sound.

The noise galvanizes Tooru’s brain, reawakens the parts of it that aren’t just  _ volleyball volleyball volleyball  _ and he realizes. That was the match point.

They won.  _ They’ve won. _

He blinks and then he’s swept up in motion, grabbed by his shoulder and dragged into a tangle of limbs and bodies and hugs. His teammates are hollering at the top of their lungs, half-formed words and otherwise meaningless sounds, and Tooru can’t even make out the screams of the crowd for how loud they’re being.

They’ve fucking  _ won. _

They’re all crowding up the person who hit that winning spike, crushing him in the middle of the world’s sweatiest, most excited group hug, but all Tooru can think is  _ I set that. _

_ I set that. I set that IsetthatIsetthatI’magoldmedalistholyshit I. Set. That. _

Then he’s screaming too. Screaming like he’s never fucking screamed before. He probably sounds like he’s dying but Tooru couldn’t give less of a shit about public image or propriety or dignity right now; he’s never felt better. He’s a  _ gold fucking medalist  _ and he’s never felt better in his entire fucking life.

He manages to pull away from the group a little, laughing breathlessly as he watches his teammates jump on each other. Somebody comes over—the  _ captain, _ the part of his head that’s somehow still working tells him—and claps him on the back. It’s grounding and solid, even if it knocks the wind out of Tooru all over again.

He stumbles a bit, but his captain holds him up, grinning at him. 

“Good job!” he yells over the sound of the crowd. Tooru’s face feels like it’s about to split open with how hard he’s smiling. “You worked hard!”

He has. He has.

“Thank you!” he yells back. “For everything!”

The captain is ambushed by their coaches before he can answer, and then Tooru’s pulled back in; more hugging, more jumping, more elation. This, he thinks, is surely must be what it feels like to stand on top of the world. Tooru is on Everest. He’s hiked up the tallest mountain in the world.

Again, he untangles himself from the group. There’s something being announced over the speakers, and the coaches have started to try and wind things down, but Tooru’s ears are ringing too loud to take in anything. He stares out at the crowd, all shining lights and shifting faces, trying to spot his parents. His sister. Takeru. They should have priority seating, so he drags his eyes away from the glitter and focuses in on the areas closest to the court.

As he does, his gaze catches on the other side of the net. The Japanese players—it’s still odd some days to not include himself in that group—are gathered loosely, clapping each other on the back and smiling. 

Then, Tooru sees somebody standing slightly apart from the group, watching him.

The whining in his ears rises to an all-time high. It’s all he can hear: that, and the  _ thud thud thud _ of his heart.

Hajime meets his gaze across that net. He’s smiling. Grinning, actually. Beaming brighter than the sun. Looking breathtakingly proud.

Tooru’s legs are moving before he knows it.

In the back of his mind, he knows he shouldn’t be doing this, but his blood is still rushing and he’s still floaty on the adrenaline; he doesn’t  _ care. _ He’s a gold medalist setter. He moved across the seas when he was still in his teens to chase a dream that is now a reality, and every single thing he’s got, he’s worked for with breath blood bone. 

And behind that breath blood and bone had been Hajime. Always Hajime.

Tooru sprints across the distance, ducking under the net hastily. Hajime’s arms are already open when he gets there and he flies into them with a lightness he’s never ever felt before. Hajime doesn’t even flinch. He just wraps his arms around Tooru and  _ lifts; _ Tooru is being spun in the air in Iwaizumi Hajime’s arms and this is it, actually. This is the peak of the mountain. This is the perfect moment.

This is when it all becomes real. 

His feet touch the ground again. “Hajime,” he gasps, breathless and shaking all over. “I’m a  _ gold medalist,” _

Hajime laughs in response and squeezes Tooru even closer.

“Yeah,” he says, fond and awed, “you are. You did it, Tooru. You did it.”

Tooru is in love with him. In love with  _ this. _ There's never been a question at all.

* * *

_ “You guys have really done it now,”  _ Hanamaki says over the phone. He clears his throat, in universal Hanamaki-speak for  _ here comes some bullshit. “Behind the bromance! Find out the long history behind the iconic hug between CA San Juan’s Setter Oikawa Tooru and Japan’s Athletic Trainer Iwaizumi Hajime here!” _

“Behind the bromance,” Hajime mutters, rolling his eyes. “Don’t people have more important things to write about?”

Hanamaki hums.  _ “Oh, they dug up your old middle school photos. Aww, you were so cute, Iwaizumi! Look at your grumpy little face!” _

Hajime looks at the clock. It’s 9:07 am, which means that Hanamaki has spent seven minutes reading out articles since he woke Hajime up with this phone call. “Did you have a reason for calling me this early?” he asks. 

Usually, Hajime’s up earlier than this, but since most of the Japanese team has scattered to go home and celebrate their silver with their families, he’s now off-duty. He should be home too, really, but he isn’t. 

But he isn’t.

Hanamaki makes a wounded noise.  _ “Must there be a reason?” _ he says. Hajime can almost visualize his offended expression.  _ “Maybe I just wanted the joy of hearing the voice of my favourite silver medal winner this fine morning!” _

Hajime chuckles, despite himself. “I didn’t win shit,” he reminds Hanamaki. “I’m not  _ actually  _ on the team.”

_ “They would be nowhere without you,” _ Hanamaki dismisses. 

Hajime knows he should be defending his team more, because he’s fully aware of the work each and every one of them has put into getting as far as they have.

He doesn’t, though. He bites his lip and stays silent, fighting off the smile growing on his face. It’s… nice, he has to admit, to know that his old high school team still has so much faith in him. Especially since he was bombarded on game day of selfies from everybody with the Argentinian flag on their cheeks. The assholes. He still has to get them back for that.

Hanamaki mercifully doesn’t comment on his silence. He just continues on, saying,  _ “Oh, speaking of silver medals, I ran into your mum yesterday. She says that you’re a disappointment to this country, and that she’s moving to Argentina.” _

Hajime laughs. “Fair enough,”

_ “She might’ve also said something about sending her love and reminding you to call her. Didn’t quite catch it,”  _ Hanamaki allows.

Ah, damn, Hajime feels bad; the past days have been so busy and hectic that he hasn’t found the time or energy to call his parents yet. He should’ve, he knows, there’s no excuse, but he also knows his parents will understand. 

“How is it back home?” Hajime asks. He misses Miyagi. 

Maybe more specifically, he misses everything he associates with Miyagi. Family. Youth. Love.

_ “Loud,” _ Hanamaki snorts.  _ “I think we’re the only place in the Japan still celebrating,” _

_ Of course, _ Hajime thinks with a fond grin. Tooru had been well known in their prefecture, and considering how much time he dedicated to charming anybody who looked at him, it’s no wonder at all that there’s people celebrating. 

“Can you blame them?” he replies. “It’s not every day you can claim to know a gold medalist,”

_ “Indeed,” _ Hanamaki says.  _ “Some people have contacted me about interviews, you know?” _

Hajime’s eyebrows go up. It’s honestly a little concerning to him, how quickly this kind of information can be uncovered. He wonders if anybody is bothering his parents. He hopes not. He didn’t have to worry about this stuff before, when he was just an athletic trainer—even one for the Japanese National team—but… he has been pretty firmly catapulted into the public eye now.

“Did you say yes?”

_ “I said I would if they’d pay me,”  _ Hanamaki replies, laughing.  _ “Nobody’s taken me up on the offer yet, unfortunately, but I’m sure some sucker out there will be desperate enough.” _

Hajime rolls his eyes, but he does laugh a little. “Getting paid to tell secrets about Oikawa sounds right up your alley,” he replies dryly.

_ “Not just Oikawa! Some people asked about you too,”  _ Hanamaki informs him. _ “And also Kageyama, as if I know anything about him.” _

Hajime snorts in response.

Hanamaki continues, voice deliberately casual,  _ “Though, I did see him in the 27/4 store yesterday. Seems like most of Karasuno are home already. You plan on following them, vice-captain?” _

Hajime had a feeling they would come to this point sooner or later. Looking out the window, he stares out over the Olympic village. Right now, it’s fairly quiet. A lot of people have gone home already. His team included.

Sighing, he replies, “Yeah, of course. I’ll be back soon. I’m just…” 

He pauses. Hanamaki lets the moment of silence go by.

“Waiting,” Hajime finishes.

_ “You’ve been waiting for over twenty years, haven’t you?” _ Hanamaki asks.  _ “Seriously, what more do you two need? A sign from God?” _

Hajime laughs, running a hand through his hair. “I promise I’ll come home soon,” he tells Hanamaki. He doesn’t bother answering the question; at this point, even Hanamaki’s ribbing over it is routine. They’ve all settled, now. Into this kind of strange, in-between comfort. It’s become old, old news.

Hanamaki sighs.  _ “Alright, alright,” _ he says, backing off.  _ “Try and drag Oikawa back with you, yeah? Just because he’s a medalist now doesn’t mean he’s too good for us,” _

Hajime smiles. That’s one thing, at least. No matter how far Oikawa goes, he doesn’t forget his roots easily.

“It’ll take a few more gold medals for him to even think about that,” he replies. 

Bright and loud, Hanamaki laughs his goodbyes. Hajime feels old even  _ thinking _ the sentiment, but it feels like his little apartment is lonelier as soon as the call drops. He hadn’t realized how much he missed Hanamaki. And everyone from Seijoh, really. 

He really does need to go home. The problem is—and he can admit this kind of thing now at his big age, no longer afraid of everything that goes  _ thump _ in his heart—he’s not sure if it’ll be home if Oikawa isn’t there. 

Hajime sighs. He can’t start wallowing already. He should get breakfast, get dressed, and figure out what his plan is from here. The past few days have been a strange mix of recovering from the finale and celebrating the finale, but he can feel the restlessness setting in already. He doesn’t want to stay here any longer than necessary. 

He pulls together some clothes that look decent enough and wonders whether he’s willing to stoop to the level of getting junk food for breakfast. His mother would kill him if she ever found out, but he doesn’t feel like cooking or going too far. Tokyo still feels pretty foreign to him, and he’s not in the mood to act the tourist, especially not with a team member or coworker to come with. 

He’s saved from this deliberation by somebody knocking on his door. Only twice, short and sharp but hard enough to ring through the apartment anyway.

Hajime’s heart doesn’t leap. His palms don’t get sweaty. His ears don’t ring. 

But he smiles.

He opens the door and he smiles.

Tooru stands there, one of his hands still raised, the other one behind his neck. He’s smiling too. Something sweet and almost embarrassed, but irrepressible.

“Hi, Iwa-chan,” he says, biting his lip. He lowers both of his hands and clasps them behind his back. He looks… shy, almost. 

Hajime had seen him, two days ago, announcing his victory before the game had even begun. Hajime had seen him making that victory a reality. 

Hajime had seen him with a gold medal around his neck. 

Oikawa Tooru has grown far, far beyond his highschool self: all that concealed fragility and desperate want and unsteady arrogance, but he hasn’t left him behind completely. He’s still here, at Hajime’s door, quietly unsure.

Fuck, Hajime loves him.

“Hi, Tooru,” he says, his smile widening into a grin. Tooru’s smile grows brighter as well, and for a moment they just stand there. Grinning at each other.

A door opening and closing nearby jolts them back into reality. They both jump a little at the sound, but it breaks the weird, delighted awkwardness between them.

Hajime laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. Looking away from Tooru, he says, “Um, do you want to come inside?”

“Ah, actually,” Tooru says, “I was wondering if you wanted to go get some breakfast with me. My team found this really good ramen place not too far from here, and the owners are lovely!” 

Something occurs to Hajime. He blinks.

At the less than encouraging response, Tooru does what he does best when he feels awkward: he talks. “Actually,” he says, stumbling over his words just a bit, “I think one of them had a crush on my captain. He was always getting extra toppings, I swear! I never got any, which makes you wonder how somebody who has such bad taste in men can make such great tasting fo—”

“Tooru,” Hajime interrupts gently. Tooru shuts up. “How did you know I was going to be awake? Or that I was even still here?”

Very slowly, some colour creeps into Tooru’s cheeks. Hajime starts grinning. 

Pursing his mouth into a line, Tooru mumbles, “Lucky guess?”

Hajime throws his head back and laughs. “So  _ you’re _ the reason I had to listen to Hanamaki do dramatic readings of tabloid articles,” he teases, delighted by how Tooru’s begun to pout. 

Tooru huffs, rolling his eyes.  _ “I _ didn’t tell him to do that,” he points out. “That was all him. I just wanted… an update!”

_ You could’ve just asked, _ Hajime thinks. Of course, he knows why Tooru hadn’t. It’s just another reminder, among the millions and millions he gets every day, of how far gone he is that he finds it endearing.

“You can’t be normal about anything, can you?” Hajime says fondly. 

Oikawa Tooru, 27 years old, professional athlete, Olympic gold medalist, pokes his tongue out at Hajime. Yeah. Hajime’s real fucking gone.

He grabs his phone and his wallet and the polaroid camera he had been given for his 25th birthday, and they head off into the streets together. 

Tooru, apparently rather conscious of his new status as an international celebrity, is wearing a mask and glasses. Hajime accepts the mask that he gets offered as well, mostly because he thinks it’s funny that Tooru thinks there’s any risk of him getting recognized as well. 

They walk in silence. Not a bad one. It’s just quiet, which Hajime has never minded. Tooru’s got that face on when he’s thinking too hard about something, and Hajime doesn’t bother trying to pry it out of him. If Tooru wants to tell him, he will. If he doesn’t…

Well, Hajime isn’t the only person Tooru will open up to anymore. It’s a thought that comes with a proud, just shy of bittersweet aftertaste. 

When they reach the ramen place and Hajime ducks under the curtain at the door, he realizes why Tooru had fallen in love with it. It’s gorgeous inside, homey and cozy, making Hajime feel a little like he’s standing in his mother’s kitchen. It’s a small, inconspicuous place as well. The Argentinian volleyball team must’ve taken shifts eating here or something, it’s that small.

Tooru pulls down his mask and smiles at Hajime, then points to two seats right near the serving counter. They’ve just sat down when somebody comes out of the back.

“Hello, and welcome to—Oh! Oikawa-san! Welcome back! Congratulations on the win!” the server says brightly. He looks around the store. “Your team isn’t here today?”

Tooru shoots Hajime a look, and Hajime has to muffle his laugh.

“Sorry, Fukui-san! Most of them have flown back to Argentina already,” Tooru explains. “I’m here with one of my friends today,”

He gestures to Hajime, his smile proud and fond, and Hajime ducks his head at the server in response.

“Good to meet you, Fukui-san,” he says.

Fukui looks him up and down. His eyes narrow. 

Hajime has a strange feeling.

Then, Fukui gasps. 

“You wouldn’t be Iwaizumi Hajime, would you?” he says, leaning over the counter. “The childhood friend himself?”

Hajime feels his ears go hot as Tooru breaks into laughter.

“Fukui-san!” Tooru giggles. “I didn’t take you for somebody who read tabloids,”

Fukui waves a hand. “Please, it’s not like the volleyball circut has anything else to talk about at the moment. There’s nothing interesting to read otherwise!” He pauses, then smirks, crossing his arms as he watches the two of them. “At least I’m avoiding the ones alleging that you two are secret lovers,”

Tooru and Hajime turn to look at each other, then promptly burst into giggles. Not because it’s out of the question, or because it’s true, but… 

_ Secret lovers _ just feels like such a childish, silly way to describe something that’s been unfolding for twenty plus years. Something that both of them have held in their hearts and nurtured, since meeting all the way until now. It feels like a playground tease for something that has grown beyond the playground and spilled its way into the streets and then across the sea.

Fukui raises his eyebrows. “Not true then, I guess.” He shakes his head. “My brother will be disappointed.”

“Co-owner,” Tooru leans over to inform Hajime, who can’t quite get rid of his smile. “He’s the one in the kitchen,”

Hajime nods.

Turning back to Fukui, Tooru waves his hand and says, “Ah, Iwa-chan is too good for me anyways,”

Fukui’s eyebrows go up higher upon hearing that. Hajime feels about the same.

“Not much better you can get than an Olympic gold medalist,” Fukui says, giving Hajime an appraising look. “You must be a great friend,”

Tooru nods vigorously, and Hajime can’t help his pleased smile.

“I try my best,” he tells Fukui.

Fukui smiles broadly at him. “Good man, good man,” he says. Then, all of them are distracted by the sound of somebody else entering the store. Fukui greets them with a nod, and then turns back to Hajime and Tooru. “Your usual, then, Oikawa-san?”

Tooru nods. “Please and thank you,” he says.

“And you, Iwaizumi-san?”

Hajime’s been too distracted by the conversation to look at the menu, but he doesn’t want to hold up Fukui any longer. Shrugging, he says, “I’ll have what he’s having.”

Fukui nods, says, “Won’t be too long,” and then heads off towards the other customer. 

Hajime turns to look at Tooru, and finds him grinning. 

“What?” he asks, but he’s already smiling as well. He doesn’t know when he developed this reflex, but he’d like it to stop. Wanting to smile when Tooru smiles is just  _ too _ sappy.

_ “I’ll have what he’s having,” _ Tooru repeats, deepening his voice and scrunching up his eyebrows. “So cool, Iwa-chan.”

Hajime rolls his eyes. “Seriously, when are you going to stop calling me that?”

Wrong thing to say. Tooru’s eyes light up.

“When you stop being so visibly annoyed by it, Iwa-chan!” he chirps back. 

Hajime snorts despite himself. He had walked into that one, he guesses. Shaking his head, he says, “You’re such a menace,”

Tooru grins. “Lying is a sin, you know,” he replies. “You  _ love _ me,”

Innocently, Hajime breaks apart his pair of chopsticks. “I can still love you when you’re a menace,” he replies. He doesn’t look at Tooru.

Finally, when he’s done scraping the splinters off of his chopsticks, he glances over.

Tooru has his lips pursed and his eyes narrowed, with the slightest bit of colour dashing his cheeks. It’s adorable. He huffs and turns to grab his own chopsticks as well, a reply nowhere to be found, but it’s okay. Hajime doesn’t need one. He knows exactly what that look means.

_ So that’s how it’s going to be, Iwa-chan, _ Tooru is saying. Hajime laughs under his breath. That’s  _ exactly _ how it’s going to be.

Their meals come out, and they fall into easy conversation. They talk about volleyball, and Miyagi, and Californian summers, perfectly content to tiptoe around the subject for a few more hours.


End file.
